


The Secrecy of Love

by TheWaitingFangirl



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: A True Debauched Amount of French Endearments, Cunnilingus, Exhibitionism, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, William Shakespeare is Overrated, this is why the other half of the AC fandom is embarrassed of us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14067447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaitingFangirl/pseuds/TheWaitingFangirl
Summary: The Café Théâtre was bursting with people today, the servants coming and going from the kitchen bringing plates of steaming hot food and elegant wine glasses, the bottle of the drink coming shortly after for the tasting. There was a vivacity, a buzzing sensation at being in the middle of a crowded room with people you didn’t know and mostly likely would never meet again in your life, something at the promise of the fun that sent you over the edge; a chance to taste the normality you knew that wasn’t for you. Well, at least not the boring bits. You smiled cheerfully, eyes searching for Arno’s across the fine and elegantly put table, practically shaking in excitement.“Is the evening to your liking, Mademoiselle?”, he inquired with a teasing smile, sliding his hand over the table to hold yours, his voice carrying the chirpy tone he always used when teasing you about something; which made you smile even more.“We’ll see, Monsieur Dorian.” You leaned over the table, purposefully enhancing the already generous cleavage of the fancy dress Arno gave you as a present for tonight, feeling rather pleased as his eyes darted lower and his tongue swept over his full lower lip; a spark of interest in his eyes.





	The Secrecy of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Local writer manages to pull out an incredible +3,700 words for a smut seemingly from nowhere and surprises everyone around her.
> 
> I… have no excuse for this. This fic has been in my archives for almost two years. I’ve written and stopped writing it so much, the style varies like a painting from goddamn Van Gogh and I feel so happy this is over. It’s like taking a heavy weight off my shoulders. 
> 
> AND HERE WE ARE, WITH A WONDERFUL PIECE OF PORN WITHOUT PLOT. I might write a second chapter for it, but I’m not entirely sure. Tell me what you marvelous people think of it and I will finally Encounter Peace™. 
> 
> And the play I picked for the mentions was Midsummer Night’s Dream because it is so Extra™

The  _Café Théâtre_  was bursting with people today, the servants coming and going from the kitchen bringing plates of steaming hot food and elegant wine glasses, the bottle of the drink coming shortly after for the tasting. There was a  _vivacity_ , a buzzing sensation at being in the middle of a crowded room with people you didn’t know and mostly likely would never meet again in your life,  _something_  at the promise of the fun that sent you over the edge; a chance to taste the normality you knew that wasn’t for you. Well, at least not the boring bits. You smiled cheerfully, eyes searching for Arno’s across the fine and elegantly put table, practically shaking in excitement.

“Is the evening to your liking,  _Mademoiselle_?”, he inquired with a teasing smile, sliding his hand over the table to hold yours, his voice carrying the chirpy tone he always used when teasing you about something; which made you smile even more.

“We’ll see,  _Monsieur_  Dorian.” You leaned over the table, purposefully enhancing the already generous cleavage of the fancy dress Arno gave you as a present for tonight, feeling rather pleased as his eyes darted lower and his tongue swept over his full lower lip; a spark of interest in his eyes. “ _Maybe_  I’ll even reward you later…”, you smiled wickedly, whispering your innuendo as if it was a dirty secret, “that is,  _if_  I deem that I’ve had enough… ah,  _fun_  tonight.” You shook his hand a bit, letting go of it rather slowly.

Arno’s cheeks adopted a slight blush at your words — but not of embarrassment,  _you knew_  — and as he tapped his index finger on the white linen of the table you could practically hear the engines in his head working on a good answer to your teasing, a waiter came closer with a silver tray on his hand, expertly putting the plates for you and Arno, alongside the glasses and poured red wine for you both. You mumbled a small thanks to the man as he finished, eyeing the food in front of you with interest and middle amazement. There was a combination of grilled lamb cutlets with a greenish sauce — that you deemed to be rosemary by its smell— and a side of sauté potatoes… it all looked delicious, even though you weren’t used to such luxury in your meals.

“Madame Gouze suggested it.” Arno commented quietly, rather sheepishly with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I picked the wine, of course… even though I thought pheasant might be better, she told me you’d prefer lamb.” He sipped the wine rather slowly, watching you carefully.

“Guess she was right,  _mon chér_.” You chuckled, looking back at him with undisguised affection through your eyelashes and took the glass in your hand, swaying it with unhurried practice before tasting the drink.

Arno knew his wine,  _definitely_.

He smiled, gaze shifting away from yours to the stage where the play was being prepared for tonight. The spectacle was almost ready to take place, the chatter of couples and friends taking over the big saloon of the establishment; small islands of illumination — candles on the tables, as there was one on yours — scattered here and there. All of it part of a world you didn’t belong nor wanted to.

And yet, you were happy.

Such world wouldn’t make you meet Arno, for sure. Yes, the life as an assassin wasn’t easy — far from that, actually. But he made things more…  _bearable_ , even though it meant extra worry during missions; but it was worth it. You smiled, catching Arno’s loving gaze with yours as the dinner carried on in a pleasant conversation about the latest book you had read from his collection before the lights dimmed even more and the curtains went up at the stage. The voices died out, everyone paying attention to the actors entering the scene and you averted your eyes to Arno — who was admiring you, thumb casually resting under his chin.

“Aren’t you going to watch it?”, you asked him cocking your head to the side as you took the glass of wine from the table, which only made the man smile with a defiant gleam in his eyes.

“Oh, I already know how this one ends…”, Arno whispered, motioning towards the stage before setting his gaze back at you, “besides… I might have a better plan.” You eyed him curiously, the beginnings of a question forming in your mind as you watched him play idly with what was left of his dinner until your attention was wrenched back to the stage by the boom of Lysander’s line.

“How now, my love!”, the man embraced Hermia in a clearly dramatic way “why are your cheeks so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?”

The woman sighed, lifting a hand to her forehead as she spoke in a high-pitched tone for comic effect, “Belike for want of rain, which I could do well!”

You smiled, taking the glass of merlot in your hands and swirled it slowly as you watched the dark room the saloon had turned into, small islands of light flickering here and there as to not disturb the illumination of the spectacle — all the visitors eagerly watching the play with a oh-so-faithful devotion as the conversation between Lysander and Hermia stretched on to a heated argument about the unpredictability of love. Smiling again, you gazed at Arno with soft eyes as he returned the look with a mischievous one.

“Seems like you’re planning something,  _mon chér_ ”, you commented in a hushed voice, hinted with humor as the crowd burst into a fit of laughter at the presentation. Arno merely hummed at your words, taking a sip of water as to avoid longer probing. Your cocked an eyebrow at him, carefully watching the man from over the rim of your glass, “I’d appreciate it if you told me what you have in mind.”

“And where would be the fun in that?”, Arno whispered back, balancing the fork between one finger and another as he grinned at you. You weren’t really sure if it was the wine, the intimate whispers in the dark or the anticipation that made you cheeks flush with pinkish fervor. “The secrecy is the best part of love, _mon trésor_ ”, he chuckled at the sheepish smile playing on your lips, settling the fork aside as his hand went for the glass of wine.

“You speak as if the only romances worth being lived are the forbidden ones”, you retorted with the ghost of laughter playing in your voice as Helena — Hermia’s best friend — entered the stage with haste.

“Not the forbidden ones, no”, he shook his head, fingers gliding over the glass’ rim, “what I meant is that all kinds of love deserve a bit of wrongdoing together; something only lovers can share”, the assassin eyed you once again, dark eyes gleaming in the dark as he lifted the glass to his lips and you licked your own in reflex, forcing yourself to tear your eyes away from his to keep watching the play; and you could see him smirk from the corner of your eyes, his squinting slightly as he put wine down and you heard the metallic clink of something falling on the floor and you could  _swear_  you saw Arno’s leg jerk.

“How clumsy of me”, he gave you a sheepish smile, gaze fixed on yours as he pushed the chair back “the fork must’ve fallen.”

Frowning your lips, you contained a huff of laughter at how careless Arno could be at times — honestly, how did he manage to survive for so long in the field?  _Wonders_. He ducked down the table and you thought about how odd it’d be if anyone could see Arno below it but luckily — for him — the white linen tablecloth was long enough it easily brushed the wooden floor. You watched as Hermia, after her monologue, left the stage under a row of excited clapping from the audience — and that’s when you felt something tug at the skirt of your dress; spine going stiff as you recognized Arno’s nimble fingers caressing your calf.

 _Bastard_.

With a distressed sigh you intertwined your fingers together above the table in a idle try to keep your composure as you did your  _very best_  to shove Arno away from you with your feet; only to hear low chuckling from below the table and his soft hands massaging your legs slowly, up to the knee and down again until you gave in with a reluctant sigh, biting your lower lip as you looked nervously around to see if someone had even  _noticed_  anything.

Everyone kept their looks directed to the stage — where the characters where already gathering and performing the next scene —, which meant no one had noticed Arno slipping under the table to be an  _obnoxious little shit_. His thumbs rubbed in a circular motion on your knees through the thin stockings he brought you earlier that same night, hands slipping to the underside of your knee as in a caress before parting them slightly, with a whisper of appreciation; which made you flush and gasp in surprise, spreading your hands flat on the table for leverage. Arno chuckled again, pressing a loving kiss to your right knee from above the outer skirt of your dress — and even so you still _felt_  the warmth of it —, the assassin’s gentle hands caressing your thighs from under the clothing as he pulled your legs towards him, making you sink a bit further into the cushioned chair.

“ _Arno!_ ” you whispered angrily, shoving a hand down the tablecloth to push him away. This has gone too far, you’d get caught eventually and you weren’t sure how you would show your face around the café the following morning, but—

Arno took hold of your hand, gentle fingers caressing your palm as you felt his lips press loving kisses to your fingertips and the telltale sensation of his tongue flicking against them. You gasped sharply, pulling your hand away from his grasp as you felt your cheeks burning. Luckily, your table was at the far end of the saloon — hidden away, next to the curtain covered windows — and no one had looked over at you nor seemed to notice your companion’s absence. Arno hummed, a deep and rich sound as he took hold of your hand once more; squeezing it lovingly as he covered it with butterfly kisses, so soft you could barely feel the press of lips against skin. His grasp softened, holding your hand between both of his as he turned the palm upwards, kisses following the side line of your index finger as he breathed warmly against it, pressing a final kiss when he finally reached the tip of it; his warm tongue pressing on your digit as he took the first quarter of your finger between his teeth and bit down gently on it.

You gulped nervously, mouth slightly open as Arno squeezed your hand once more and coaxed you to press it against his cheek — and you followed the subtle hint, thumb tracing the rough skin of the scar that garnished his face as he pressed back into your palm with a soft sigh.

It was incredible, really, how Arno managed to reduce the focus of your attention towards him and only him. He took a moment, basking in the warmth and gentleness you offered him, until the audience started clapping animatedly. He let go of your hand and you thanked him silently, taking a small sip of water to try and ease your anxiety. Just how far was he planning to go?

“Arno, you better be ready for the fucking  _beating_  I’m going to give you later. Because, by all deities, you very well fucking  _deserve_  it”, you whispered hurriedly, eyeing the waiters circling around the room gathering the plates and possibly offering desserts.

You heard an unfazed sound of indifference and tips of fingers teasing their way up your thighs underneath the silky layers of your dress to caress your hip, hooking around the edge of your knickers and signaling for you to raise your hips as he tried to take it off. You bit your lip, looking around as you gave in to Arno’s silent request, his fingers sliding lovingly against your skin as he tortuously and carefully dragged it down your legs. He kissed your left knee, nuzzling into the inside of your thigh as he did so; placing yet another kiss there as a waiter suddenly materialized himself beside you to take your half-eaten plates and glasses of wine, giving you a look akin to sympathy as he couldn’t find your companion on the table with you. You smiled tightly back at him, ignoring Arno’s obnoxious and shameless advances between your legs.

“We’re going to get caught.” You eyed the stage, feigning interest as best as you could.

His hands now played just on the outside of your thighs, massaging and scratching lightly at the skin as he decided to suckle lightly on a specially soft and sensitive spot of your inner thigh, the insides of his mouth impossibly hot. You sucked a breath in, bringing your hand to your lips and pressing your knuckles there to stay silent.

_Devil take him._

Arno, clearly mindful your nervous fidgeting, brushed the tip of his fingers against your skin in a soothing motion, the softness of the gesture enough to cause a shivery feeling down your spine and when he pressed a gentle kiss to the spot where he had sucked, you could feel your resolve melting away. His attention shifted to your other thigh, the soft pads of his thumbs circling the insides of your knees slowly as he proceeded to reverently press kisses onto you, but not  _quite_  where you wanted —  _needed_ — him the most. Biting your lip again, you shuffled, sitting closer to the edge of the cushioned chair and discreetly spread your legs wide as Arno nibbled his way up, playing with the lips of your sex and forcing you to stifle yet another embarrassing but — impossibly close,  _so close, so so so close_  and yet—

“Will you ask nicely,  _mon chérie_?”, Arno whispered fervently, breath unbearably hot and enticing,  _all_ _at once_ , but—

“I don’t beg”, you replied in a quiet voice as defiance bubbled in your chest at being teased mercilessly with soft touches that just weren’t  _enough_.

Arno hummed in acknowledgment, nuzzling closer to the middle of your legs and  _fuck_ , you could  _feel_  his breath against your wet slit. “You beg for  _me_ …”, he sighed against your skin in a hushed voice, pressing an impossibly soft kiss to it and gripping the back of your thighs to keep them open as he took his time, “remember?”

You fidgeted, fighting the  _urge_  to tangle your fingers in his hair just the way you  _knew_  he liked and to have him _moan_  around you. Your muscles flexed at the thought and promise of pleasure yet to come and Arno, ever so observant, rasped:

“Beg for me.”

As in a cue and with quivering lips, your face flushed as you blindly watched the stage, barely registering anything else but Arno’s touch, “please, Arno.”

“You can do better”, he muttered slowly and dissatisfaction dripped from his voice before he leaned in and flicked his tongue softly, a barely-there touch of wetness and warmth that kept you from fully enjoying it as he relished on the impatient shudder of your body when he got so  _fucking close_ —

“Please”, you called again, frustrated for not being able to pull at his hair with all the  _damn_  fabric in the way, “ _please_ , Arno. Don’t—”, a gentle press of lips and you sighed with a shudder. “I need  _more_ ”, you whined lowly.

“Easy,  _amour_ …”, he hummed then, brushing your clit with the tip of his nose and leaning impossibly close as he licked a slow and obscene strip from the bottom of your entrance up to it, the flat of his tongue catching all the moisture already gathering between your legs with scorching, pleasurable, heat. You sighed and closed your eyes for a brief moment, relishing under the deliciously improper attention Arno gladly provided.

He pulled one of your legs over his shoulder, adjusting for a better angle as he managed to spread you wider without looking like you were doing anything but enjoying the play in stoic contemplation. Quieting down, you swallowed a whimper of pleasure as his tender lips closed around your clit and sucked deliberately; the small gasps of pleasure and heavy breathing from him fanning over your skin in gentle puffs. Arno’s hands squeezed your thighs and he pressed his face into you, tongue impossibly soft when he licked your entrance slowly; the breathing coming out of his mouth pushing you even further.

You wanted to groan and moan and  _beg_  for more. His free hand brushed upwards, middle finger teasing your entrance and checking the wetness before deciding to press in  _oh, so slowly_ , and you  _clenched_ , because it felt so  _good_  and not enough at the same time and you needed  _more_ —

Arno pressed in further, kissing and sucking at your clit with meek interest as you keened as quietly as you could, the leg slung over his shoulder pressing down onto him heavily as you tried to pull him even closer in the middle of your desperation. He cooed sweetly, whispering something you couldn’t quite make out and his finger pressed up at the same time the audience started laughing loudly and his other hand squeezed the underside of your buttocks and—

“ _Fuck_ ”, your voice cracked rather loudly, bracing your forearms over the table in the middle of a lustful daze and Arno slid  _another_  finger in, massaging your insides in a easy and practiced way you were so used to and you reveled on how  _thick_  they felt in this position.

“Hush, now _”,_  he pulled away, crooning in warning and pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh and resting his temple briefly on the leg over his shoulder as he — you presumed — watched his fingers disappear inside of your heat. “Not yet, not yet…”

“ _Arno_ , I—“

He pressed his mouth against your cunt once more, licking from where his fingers disappeared inside of you up to your clit in languid strokes and your hips caved, trying to follow the gentle rocking of his hand and he held you down, snaking his free arm over your body and pushing you firmly onto the chair as his hand curled on the soft skin of your hips.

You whimpered quietly, closing your eyes and clutching the white linen of the table between your fingers in a desperate attempt to keep yourself grounded as Arno teased you; not a single ounce of remorse in his voice as he murmured: “Come for me,  _mon ange_.” Arno pressed his fingers up yet again as he resumed his sucking on your clit, tongue lapping whatever he could reach from your slit and into the hot wetness of his mouth and your back went stiff with anticipation and then— then it was too much, too good, too—

“ _Mon Dieu_!”, you mewled faintly, hunching forwards as your orgasm came tumbling down violently under Arno’s knowing  touch, a gentle yet insistent presence as he rode you through it. His fingers undulated, ever so softly brushing the small bundle of nerves from the inside until you quivered with overstimulation; and he hummed softly when the leg over his shoulder tried to push him away.

As it slowly faded, your orgasm left you a shaky and breathy mess. Whimpering softly as Arno pulled his fingers out, he took the time to ease your calf; hands gentle as they squeezed it briefly before fixing the layers of skirts of your fine dress. You could feel the wetness between your legs against your petticoat and the flush of your cheeks as you leaned back on the cushioned chair with a sigh and allowed your eyes to fall shut. The muscles of your sex ached sweetly, still fluttering and leaving a bittersweet sensation behind.

“I never enjoyed this play”, Arno commented nonchalantly and you opened your eyes to gaze at his figure across from you; as if he had never left. Swallowing hard, you rolled your eyes up, breathing a laugh at his casualty.  His chin glistened, lips rosy and raw from all the sucking as he gave you a cheeky grin, fingers playing over the table with a piece of fine fabric that you thought to be a handkerchief. “Staying for the dessert? They’re serving vanilla  _millefeuilles_  and  _champaigne_.” Arno eyed you smugly, unfolding the cloth to reveal — to your utter shock — your undergarments.

“ _Arno_!”, you shrieked, trying to snatch them away from him.

“Ah- ah!”, the man pulled away, bringing the fabric to his face and proceeding to clean himself. “You made quite a mess,  _mon chérie_ ”, he teased with a longing look towards your cleavage and you blushed to an even deeper shade of crimson and opened your mouth to say something back, but then—

“May I offer you dessert,  _madame et monsieur_?”, a waiter materialized himself beside you and you pressed your lips together quickly, gaze shifting between the young man and Arno just as he pocketed your knickers into his coat. You could feel the words die in your throat as Arno shot the young man a polite smile.

“Not tonight,  _mon ami_ ”, he waved the boy away with a gesture of his hand.

_Damn him._

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”, you whispered with mild admonishment, as if berating a young child for eating a piece of chocolate before dinner.

“I have been told”, Arno shrugged casually, grinning at you before taking a brief look around and leaning into you. “Should I invite you to my bedchambers or…?”, he trailed off with a smug look.

Squinting at him, you returned a pleasant smile and took his hand into yours. “I’ll go now and if you’re not there before the end of this act, I’m going to use that red scarf to tie your hands above your head and ride that pretty face of yours until the sun comes up.”


End file.
